Underground Vampire

by David Lee

  The invitation specified that she enter the building from an alley in the International District. As she walked up the middle of the alley, the Indian stepped from a doorway, her katana at his side. He handed it to her without a word, all of the argument settled when she’d made her arrangements with him. He, too, insisted on accompanying her, arguing that Oliver would not deign to acknowledge a Human as an opponent, let alone a body guard. His rationale was strong and she’d considered the comforting temptation of it for a moment, only to steel her resolve and reject it. Believing she would not return, she didn’t want to leave anyone in peril. He vowed not to follow her into the depths. Ismaeli and he stood in the alley, vowing to wait for her return.

  She opted to carry her favorite sword openly in her left hand rather than at the waist or on her back. Since she was violating the agreement, it was better to get it out in the open so Oliver could natter on about her contemptuous breach of the agreement than to try and hide it.

  This way, she could agree she’d brought her sword and ask what are you going to do about it. Her little defiance would be expected and would quell Oliver’s paranoia; a little push back would be interpreted as spirit. The myth he was inventing would be embroidered since she had brought the sword responsible for the death of so many of his followers. When he saw it she knew he would be distracted with the fantasy of displaying it over his mantel, silent testament to her defeat.

  On the inside of her sword arm she contemplated, again, the ninety-nine secret names of God minutely lettered by the men of the Blue Anchor under the direction and guidance of Mr. Finkelstein, whose last words to her were that her arm and her sword would destroy all that came before her. She hoped so, for where she was going the hordes would be before her, behind her and upon her. She hoped they wouldn’t get any of their disgusting crap on her outfit.

  Traipsing through the building, her sword in her hand, she slipped into combat mode. Breathing in through her nose, holding the air in her lungs for a whole note then forcefully exhaling, her awareness shrank to the little hot spot at the end of her nose. She was present in her life at that moment, and each moment became the present.

  Descending into the basement she extended her senses, feeling for life, searching for the People of the Night. Locating the entrance to the vault, her thoughts echoing about like sonar, she detected nothing and entered the labyrinth, eager for the end. Her last superfluous thought was whether Oliver had constructed a maze or labyrinth, she hoped for the elegance of labyrinth.

  Once in the basement she was plunged into a desolate place, shaded by light refracted through torn and broken landscape. Twisting and turning up and down the dizzying way, she lost her path and could only continue forward, retreat seemed impossible. A maze, not a labyrinth, definitely a maze. False turns were everywhere leading to dead ends until she lost track of the way and chose always the way leading down.

  Coming to the curve in the downward path, an opening in the rock wall appeared. Whoever had cut the stone, she thought, was a master. Sculpted in a beam and post design with the proportions of the golden rectangle, the opening was inviting. Pausing, she admired the work across the lintel. It was, she recognized, Oliver plagiarizing from his betters:

  ONLY ETERNAL THINGS ARE OLDER

  THAN I AND I WILL FOREVER ENDURE.

  “Oh crap,” thought Arabella, “he thinks he’s Divine.”

  “He left off my favorite part,” she mused, admiring the fine work,

  “Through me is the way into the suffering city;

  Through me the way into grief eternal;

  Through me the way among lost Humanity.”

  The path dropped and curved so that she circled down about an open cavern; a grotesque mobile of bloody blotches dangled from the ceiling. Descending further, she came upon piteous people, Humans trapped in makeshift ditches unable to climb from the pits, some chained to large boulders, which they must drag to move about; others tormented by cages about their bodies with inward facing spikes.

  Oliver favored gravity in his design, and as she descended the ramp, so did the refuse and waste from the wretched prisoners so that the ditches became progressively more foul until she came to the section labeled ‘public servants,’ where judges, prosecuting attorneys and police stood to their knees in the accumulated sewage, lamenting, “it’s not fair,” as those above them heaped more refuse upon their heads.

  Passing a curve she came upon an odor so foul and penetrating that she could not persist. Stopping, Arabella covered her mouth and nose in a vain attempt to keep from retching, so disgusting was the smell.

  Forcing herself forward, they came to priests and even a bishop. All were upside down, planted like bulbs in the night soil with their legs protruding from the ground like stunted growth. The soles of their feet were painted with tar and lit on fire so that here the light cast fantastic shadows as the pedophiles and their protectors wriggled like tortured insects. Thrashing about, they screamed, “Don’t you know who I am,” as she passed by, until one dressed in red claimed to be the servant of God himself, demanding that she stop and release him.

  “How long have you been here?” she asked as he bicycled his feet.

  “One day,” was the tortured response, “the devil did this to me.”

  “Not the devil,” she replied.

  “I didn’t believe, now I do.”

  “Sorry, father; the one who did this is worse than the devil.”

  “Free me and I will pray for you.”

  “Pray anyway; I’m your only way out. Say, aren’t you guys in one of the bottom circles?”

  He looked blank at the crazy turn of her conversation, or maybe he was distracted by the hot tar dripping onto his face.

  “In the original?” Seeing incomprehension in his face she walked off, heading down. “I’m sure I’m getting close, the Pope was toward the bottom, I think.”

  She walked past the horrors and the plaintive sobbing as the priests and police turned upon each other, each accusing the other of being at fault, each demanding their rights.

  They crawled out of the dark, silently circling her, underlings from the look of them, sacrifices sent to bother and, maybe if they got lucky, hurt her. Hideous creatures they were, immatures, more of the Vampires made by Oliver, secreted in the depths, kept alive on rat blood. What they lacked in power they made up in numbers, relying on a swarming wave to overwhelm her.

  Their mistake was to threaten, rictus lips back, fangs protruding. They inflated rather like those amusing Japanese lizards, she thought, as she took their heads in a classic spin, more fouette than piro. They collapsed in slow motion, one after another, the heads bouncing off into the rubble. “When, oh when, will you learn that when it’s fighting time, fight,” she mused, as she stepped past the bodies quickly turning to ash.

  Peering over the edge of the ramp, she looked down into the smoke and flashing flame rising from the bottom. Murmuring, “I know how this ends, I read the book,” she vaulted over the ramp’s edge down into the fire flashing from below until the noxious smoke billowing from the depths obscured her.

  She landed on a lower section of the ramp decorated with miserable unfortunates chained to the walls. Disgusted by Oliver’s deranged excess, she didn’t linger to discover their sin but forged on down the path. Receding light beckoned her forward as she openly marched down the middle way, her Louboutins click clacking, the triumphant sound of the conqueror rather than a thief come in the night.

  A recent hole in the wall beckoned and she halted briefly to sample the ancient air released from below. The updraft was strong enough to push her hair back from her face and brought a primeval odor of earth that had never seen the sun; clean ancient dirt, perfect for a Vampire’s final sleep.

  Sharp turn followed sharper, each offering excellent ambush opportunity, until the tunnel butted against a cut so that the way continued, but four feet higher. Standing on the ledge was Jason, dressed in possibly the finest black suit she had ever seen on a
man. His shirt was the white of prestige with a perfectly knotted red tie matched by an impeccable pocket square providing a slash of brilliance to him. He raised his arm unconsciously to straighten a cuff, displaying gold cufflinks as he greeted her, “I told him those boys he sent to greet you would be wasted.”

  “Jason, you are one of the best looking men I have ever seen,” she said.

  “Thank you, my dear. I have always enjoyed the time we spent together.”

  “Now, please step aside; I have an appointment and don’t want to be late.”

  “I can’t do that; I’m here to relieve you of your sword and whatever else you may have brought in violation of your agreement.”

  “Jason, I love your head where it is, but if you don’t get out of the way I’m going to take it off and ruin that gorgeous suit in the process, so why don’t you leave.”

  “Can’t do that.”

  “Run Jason, it’s a big world.”

  “No, I don’t want to live as prey; I’ll face you now.”

  Bird Girl appeared from out of the dark delivering two blades, a long sword and a foot long double bladed dagger. European, she thought, maybe German by the looks of the dagger guard. Perhaps dear Jason was a secret practitioner of the fighting arts.

  Turning to Bird Girl, she said, “You, I’ll be happy to kill. Leave now, it’s your only warning.”

  Unlike her usual gaudy plumage, Bird Girl was dressed all in black, a severe look accented by minimal makeup, with her hair pulled straight back. She had her own blade and handled it easily, familiar with its form and function.

  “I wouldn’t miss this for anything and you should know before you die that my name is Natasha.”

  “Ah yes, the second rater I’ve heard so much about. And all this time I thought you were just a bar rat,” replied Arabella, smiling sweetly over the insult, “My apology.”

  “Before I kill you, you will be on your knees apologizing,” said Natasha, “and you will mean it.” Natasha lightly jumped from the ledge and, while they were talking, circled to her left, no doubt planning to encircle her while Jason pressed forward from the front.

  “Whore, you are playing with the big girls now.”

  Most of the community that considered such things thought that Arabella’s choice of a katana as her personal weapon was due to the blade’s cutting power or, perhaps, some mystical connection to the East. What few fully appreciated was that she relied upon the Samurai manual of arms, wherein the attack started with the blade in the scabbard, one continuous motion ending in the fatal cut. Europeans drew their blade, then started combat, and while they might think the action was continuous, there was an infinitesimal distance between two discrete steps, a tiny moment where an adept might strike unimpeded, dealing the mortal blow.

  As Natasha raised her blade to en garde, Arabella was moving forward. Her blade started its movement on her left side and, as she stepped forward sinking onto her right leg till her shoulder was over the knee, she swept the blade around and cut through Bird Girl’s ankles so that she stood for a moment then toppled over. She still held her sword until Arabella said drop it or I will cut your arm off. The sword clattered to the floor and, using her toe, Arabella flipped it into the shadows.

  “Extraordinary,” said Jason, as if he had just witnessed a stunning gymnastic routine, “Wouldn’t believe it if I hadn’t seen it.”

  “Last chance,” said Arabella, fastidiously cleaning the blood from her sword by wiping it across Natasha’s shirt.

  “I don’t suppose you would surrender your weapons so we could avoid a messy confrontation?” he asked politely.

  She looked at him, saddened that he and his beauty would no longer be in the world, and gave him a final smile goodbye.

  He jumped down landing at her level and feinted to his left into her sword arm, saying, “I don’t think I’ll go that way.” She feinted and swung horizontally, a body cut, which he easily evaded and immediately counterattacked with the point of his sword to her waist, coming in behind her swing. She narrowly avoided the puncture and settled in for the difficult grind of a long nasty fight.

  Evidently, Jason had been alive in Europe when men fought for a living. He handled his blades well, no wasted movement, always looking to wound or kill. The dagger was always a problem, and several times when they locked blades he narrowly missed stabbing her neck.

  Several times they leapt into the air, rising and floating down in a crescendo of blows. Finally, she bobbed her head, luring him to again leap into the air where he hung above her. Suspended helplessly at apogee he looked down at her, helpless; she moved under him and, slashing back and forth, cut him into three sections as gravity pulled him to the ground. Pausing, she watched as his body flared and turned to ash, an old and powerful Vampire, one that, in spite of herself, she missed and respected and, in some odd way, even loved.

  All that remained was to locate Oliver; she was bored with the preliminaries. The pathway narrowed and became quite cramped. To the sides and above someone had carved bolt holes that could hide an attacker. Sheathing her sword, she pulled the .45 from her waist and proceeded; anyone popping out she would blast with the silver tipped bullets; the noise would be deafening in the enclosed space but the slugs very effective.

  Ahead, the light flickered as if the narrow passageway was lit by torches. “A melodramatic touch,” she thought, “one that Oliver would love; I’m surprised he didn’t lug an organ down here for mood music.”

  Coming around another bend, she saw that there were, in fact, torches stuck in the walls; as she grew closer, she could see that what she thought were small logs jammed into the walls were, in fact, body parts held in place by wrought iron sconces. Here a leg, there an arm, and so on down the passageway, the burning flesh giving off a sweet and disgusting smell, as she peered down the passageway, the smoke burning her eyes. Involuntarily, she caught herself counting the limbs, trying to determine how many Humans Oliver had killed as set decoration. A part of her mind tried to match the various parts; there was a left leg, so where is its mate? It was the only way to maintain sanity as she closed in on his sick mind.

  “Can you see your way?” Oliver’s voice echoed down the passage, faintly magnified with a tiny bit of reverb. “It’s more than you provided me when you put me in the grave; you should thank me for my kindness,” this last with a bit of petulance.

  Ignoring him, she continued on, the stench from the torches growing stronger as she descended into the depths. She estimated that she was many hundreds of feet below ground when she came to the end of the passage. Looking up, she could see that he had hollowed out an area the size of a small chapel; at the end a dome had been dug out of the ceiling; along the walls of the nave were cutouts approximating the Way of Sorrows.

  As she gawked at the surreal scene, a head popped out of where Veronica should be wiping His face and she shot, the head exploding crimson from the silver jacketed bullet. Leaping into the air she whirled, putting a round into each opening. Thumbing the ejector, the spent magazine popped out and she calmly inserted a fresh clip and put a round into the remaining opening. Flaming Vampires tumbled from the openings, lighting the scene for Oliver’s final act.

  “Enough of the theatrics, don’t you think I’ve killed enough of your Vampires? Keep it up and you’ll be missing your army.”

  “You were supposed to be unarmed,” he said, a little peevish now that his plans were unwinding.

  “And you were supposed to be alone, so we both lied.”

  “If you come to the end of the chamber, take the last window on your right; it will lead you to me.”

  Inventorying her weapons, she had her sword and her .45; she’d used her ammo on the underlings and now her favorite pistol was dead weight. Hating to abandon it, she’d had it for almost a hundred years, she tucked it into a bent wall fissure, scratching a mark on the floor to mark the spot, should she come this way again.

  Pausing, she breathed in through her nose, held for a wh
ole note, just enough to differentiate, and then released out of her nose. Concentrating, she focused on the little hot spot glowing at the tip of her nose until there was no regret and no future, no love gained and none lost. Opening her eyes, the grey and smoky walls turned bright and, for a moment, she marveled at the texture she hadn’t yet noticed and smelled the cleanliness of the mostly unpolluted deep.

  Facing the final decision, she thought to herself how she’d tried to protect Jesse from this end. Once she’d found the tomb empty and Oliver risen from the dead, she’d careened to a final meeting and, truth be told, she didn’t know who would win, which of them would survive.

  Overpowering gusts of hot air bubbling with gas came now. The heat was oppressive and she gave a quick smile, wryly thinking she had again dressed appropriately to go to hell. For hell it was; the path was cracked with magma puddling as it seeped from the bowels of the earth.

  Coming at last to a cavern, she stopped to see Jesse on his hands and knees, a collar about his neck, a short vicious chain run through a bolt in the floor so that he was forced to cower at the feet of Oliver. Jesse raised his face as she entered the chamber and hopeful recognition crossed his face, instantly replaced by concern as he screamed “Run, save yourself,” as Oliver, roused from self-absorbed lethargy, jerked the chain so that Jesse’s tongue bulged from his mouth and he fell to his stomach, life choking out of him.

  Arabella walked into the cavern, unconcerned about the fate of her lover. Stopping, she viewed Oliver as a beast in a cage, for that is what he had become. Around him were corpses of half devoured Humans and Vampires. Apparently he could no longer discriminate and, responding to his urges, randomly attacked whatever was within reach. “I’ve been waiting,” he said, unfolding his wings. “I’m going to kill him,” he jerked the chain in case she didn’t get his point, “tonight.”

  “Saving him for dessert,” gliding closer as she talked, “are you?”

  “No, you are my dessert. He is, how do you say, merely the amuse bouche.” Amused at his witticism, Oliver opened his mouth and laughed loud, a corpulent stench rolling before him. “Should I eat him now,” he bellowed, “or later, which do you prefer?”